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406 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1865
Thinking of this during the long afternoon … she got up and looked at herself in the mirror. She moved up her hair from off her ears, knowing where she would find a few that were grey, and shaking her head, as though owning to herself that she was old; but as her fingers ran almost involuntarily across her locks, her touch told her that they were soft and silken; and she looked into her own eyes, and saw that they were bright; and her hand touched the outline of her cheek, and she knew that something of the fresh bloom of youth was still there; and her lips parted, and there were her white teeth; and there came a smile, and a dimple, and a slight purpose of laughter in her eye and then a tear. She pulled her scarf tighter across her bosom, feeling her own form, and then she leaned forward and kissed herself in the glass.For its time, this is unusually candid in its sensual depiction of female desire. Equally interesting is the passage a few pages later which examines the flip-side of this moment:
She desired to be married, although she was troubled by some half-formed idea that it would be wicked. Who was she, that she should be allowed to be in love? Was she not an old maid by prescription, and, as it were, by the forces of ordained circumstances? Had it not been made very clear to her when she was young that she had not right to fall in love....And although in certain moments of ecstasy, as when she kissed herself in the glass, she almost taught herself to think that feminine charms and feminine privileges had not been all denied to her, such was not her permanent opinion of herself. She despised herself. Why, she knew not; and probably did not know that she did so. But in truth, she despised herself, thinking herself to be too mean for a man's love.I found this section really rather devastating: my heart went out to Margaret Mackenzie and at the same time it went out to all the many, many people I have known (including, in darker times of my life, myself) who have "despised themselves" and thought themselves unworthy of love. It's a common-enough human phenomenon, yet not one which every nineteenth-century male novelist would think to bestow upon a female character.
So that, though the absolute fact of Mrs Stumfold being dust, and grass, and worms, could not, in regard to the consistency of things, be denied, yet in her dustiness, grassiness, and worminess she was so little dusty, grassy, and wormy, that it was hardly fair, even in herself, to mention the fact at all.